Mystical Ancestors

At the suggestion of my sister-in-law, Molly, I'm reading (listening to) David McCullough's biography of John Adams.

My birthmother lived in Gloucester from birth until retirement, when she and her husband moved to Orlando. I found her when I was 33, in 1983. She had no interest in getting to know me or having any connection with me. We exchanged letters once, and she asked me never to contact her again. I respected her wishes, but I so missed knowing her, at least a little. My personal solution to this great sadness was to research her genealogy.

I remember vividly the first time I saw her family on paper—specifically, on microfiche at the National Archives in Washington, DC. When I walked out of the Archives carrying a paper copy of the 1910 census record, I felt like I was sitting on a cloud. I felt, for the very first time in my life, like I had a connection to the Universe. Up until that moment, for the first 33 years of my life, I felt like I didn't belong anywhere. Now I had connections, I had ancestors, I had an identity. It was a breathtaking moment in my life, and still brings tears to my eyes when I remember that revelation.

I spent bits of time over the next few years continuing to dig into my past. I would get one ancestor's death certificate, then write to an office in Gloucester requesting that person's marriage certificate or birth certificate. A month or so later, a handwritten copy would arrive in my mail box. Then I would go search around in the Archives or in the Mormon library in Kensington, MD, find another name, and send off for that death or birth or marriage certificate. It was a slow, tedious process, and I loved every minute of it. Part of the reason I decided to go to law school was my love of the research process.

The farthest back I was able to go—the first person I was able to find in the Colonies—was a man named Osmun Dutch, who settled in Essex, MA, in 1622. He moved to Gloucester a few years later, and all his descendants and my ancestors lived in Gloucester from that point forward. I've visited Gloucester twice; to drive around that city and see streets named for my ancestors simply fills my soul. You may remember that I drove to Chicago last year for the weekend, just to see the Edward Hopper exhibition at the Art Institute. His "Hodgkins House" was the house my grandmother lived in. I imagined sitting at Hopper's easel as he gazed at my family's home and interpreted it in oils.

I listen to "John Adams" and hear of events in the Boston area and points east during the mid-1700s. I imagine what my family members were doing in that time period. I learn what life was like for them—the hardships, the joys, the challenges.

I'll never be able to know, factually, what kind of people I'm descended from. I know my musicality came from somewhere back there. I choose to believe that my dedication and motivation and hard-working nature came from them also. I'll never know them, but I love imagining them.


What are you reading?